


A Dare In Other Ways

by jazzfic



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzfic/pseuds/jazzfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just nighttime, a tiny room on a train, a place to be for the hours we have to bear before our next destination. It's just someone to be with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dare In Other Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Prompts in Panem Day 6, Canon Places: the train

The sound of the shower reminds me of a rainstorm, though I know it is no more than hot water onto tiling and glass. I don't let my thoughts stray beyond that. The way she clutches at the towel and hurries to lock herself in my small bathroom makes it clear that she's nervous, and that makes _me_ nervous and goodness knows why this should feel any different than the first, second, third time our hands met after dinner and some tight, desperate measure had us closing a bedroom compartment door shut and contemplating a freshly made bed with the same fear. After all, there's no love in nightmares. 

But now, why now...I don't know. Maybe because this is my bed, not hers. That's new. My mind has a way of cataloging new things in a way that isn't always helpful. Is this trust? A new version of trust? It's like everything about her is multi-faceted into a stream of colours but nothing ever meets or matches, and sometimes they just get darker while others stray into light, but a good light, airy light. Like when I look at her and see the beginnings of a smile, but it stops and finishes in other ways; her hand on my arm, tracing the hairs and the bumps of my wrist; or my name, whispered when I pretend to sleep. I don't dare show her what the tiny nod she gave did to me when I pulled left instead of followed right. It's just nighttime, a tiny room on a train, a place to be for the hours we have to bear before our next destination. It's just someone to be with. 

I sit on the edge of the bed, looking down at the crisply folded sheets and wondering where I'll get the strength to possibly pull them apart. The noise of the water abruptly ends and I twist awkwardly out of my pants, cursing as the metal points of my artificial leg catch on the material. I'm halfway into a t-shirt when the bathroom door opens and she pads quickly across the carpet, dumping the wet towel on the covers. I freeze stupidly, my eyes staring through white cotton, my head and hands somehow forgetting in that moment how to operate until I hear a faint giggle. 

“Peeta,” is all she says. I feel it rattle through me. It's actually dizzying.

I fumble and pull the shirt down over my chest. It's the wrong way around. “Sorry,” I mumble, though I don't know why I'm apologising, and yank my arms out to start again. By the time the t-shirt is on properly I'm flustered and hot and wanting to just pull the whole thing off. I contemplate it for a second too long; a sliver of inappropriate curiosity has me lifting the hem and looking right at her, testing for a moment to see if she'll react to me, but I stop myself and smile crookedly instead. I did hear her laugh. That's something. More than something. It's like everything we share: as good as we want it to be, but no more. Anything beyond is still wrapped in fear, and hers is still impassable. We need each other and know it. 

But knowing goes pretty deep, so does awareness. I see her and she sees me, and a little bit more isn't going to break the world in a single night. Let it be physical. Let it be a thought that wanders where it shouldn't. 

So I watch her openly. She's playing with the end of her braid and looking out at the blackness flying by. Her chest rises and falls and I feel a knot uncurl inside me. I won't be embarrassed, I tell myself. I won't hide. 

Ha. Good luck, say the darkening colours. You'll fail, fail, fail. 

“Haymitch knows,” I say. “He pulled me aside this afternoon behind an enormous flower arrangement, like we were hiding or something. Said 'I sure hope yer not takin' risks, boy'.” I pick at the edge of the pillowcase, trying not to smile at my bad impression of our mentor. Well, I amuse myself, at least. 

“Risks?” 

I shrug. Katniss tilts her head and looks at me blankly for a few seconds. Then she says, “Oh,” very quietly and presses her lips together. I know that look from the arena, when she would use the shadow of the cave to hide her trembling awareness, the not-quite kisses that were at last something more than nerves or adrenaline. I don't know whether she really doesn’t understand or is too ready to blindly follow the part of her that ignores everything until it's painted out in brassy, capitol letters. Either way, I honestly don't mind. I'll let teasing substitute for therapy any day, if it means I can make her forget, if I can remind her that there's some good left in this, in us. 

“Yeah,” I say, lying down on top of the sheets. “It's the conversation you never, ever want to have with Haymitch, believe me. Why, did Effie not get around to that part yet?”

The expression on Katniss' face shuts me up. She tears the bedding aside unceremoniously and slips in. A small huff of air escapes her lips. “I was wondering what you two were doing behind those flowers,” she says. Her hair is rolling undone already and I reach out and pull at it. She turns to look at me. I touch her nose with my thumb, draw a line to her cheek, down to her lips. I roll towards her and draw her in. We breathe slowly. I look at the place where her nightshirt hollows between her breasts, and she follows my eyes carefully. This time tomorrow we might be backwards again, taken some place worse, clutching with mean desperation for the point where sharing body heat was the only thing we could do and do well, and live for it. 

“Can I kiss you, Katniss?”

She stares at me for a long time, then nods. Slow breathing shakes a little, speeds up perhaps, but I won't lose myself. I won't. She tastes of the chocolate we gulped in silence after dinner, smells of the hot shower water, piped and recycled and cleaned and reused while we peal through the landscape in this bullet of a train. I break away first, smiling at her closed eyes, the soft, open shape of her lips. I could, so willingly, but I won't. She followed me tonight, stepped into my room, kicked apart my sheets. I want to thank her, and I want her to wrinkle her nose and give that little frown and demand to know why. I want to poke at her logic and laugh because I'm as clueless as she is. I just love too easily for it.

“So I guess everyone knows then,” she murmurs into my neck. 

It's not a question. It's maybe half a thought turned into sleep. Except...except. There's hope in her voice. It's unmistakable, and I reach for it blindly. My hands shake. She doesn't know it, a frantic voice stammers in my head. She can't. But I want to laugh and grow old in this moment. I want to stumble into the shower and turn the water on bright, fizzing cold.

_Mellark, you're an idiot._

I settle for sleep instead.


End file.
